


this fumble has become biblical

by orphan_account



Series: fast blood [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a fake ID.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this fumble has become biblical

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Frightened Rabbit's "Fast Blood"

It starts with what Arthur will admit is a stupid idea. He's sixteen, he's curious, mostly in the realm of whether he wants to suck dick outside the theoretical, and he lives in a suburb that is really lacking in guys willing to spread their legs so he can work out a theory.

It starts with a fake ID.

"This is a stupid idea," Ariadne tells him when he shows it to her between classes. "If you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out."

Arthur raises his eyebrow.

"And if some creepy dude starts stalking you, I won't save you," Ariadne continues. She pauses. "Okay, I will, but I won't be happy about it. Because this is a stupid idea."

"I appreciate your input," Arthur says solemnly, then ducks when she throws a textbook at his head.

And he is well aware that it's a stupid idea. It's stupid and it's risky and it's about as unlike him as he can get. He tries to talk himself out of it on the entire trip to the city that Saturday, on the entire time in the subway, on the entire trek to a bar right off of the university campus.

Except that doesn't work, because he's cautious, but the curiosity is killing him. That and the sexual frustration. It had doubled since he realised part of the reason he ignored the entire social scene was that he really, really wasn't interested in what was under the cheerleaders skirts, and that crushing on the football players was suicidal.

So here he is, in the great beyond. He gets carded, but the forgery is impeccable; he paid for perfection, practically emptied his savings account for it. He gets a suspicious look, but they let him through.

That is where he gets stumped. He knows what he should do: he should find some guy, hit on him, and then hopefully do...something. Something sexual. He hasn't figured out the specifics. The problem is, in theory it's easy, but in practice he just got over tripping over his tongue around girls, and he's not even _attracted_ to them.

He's halfway to panicking and calling Ariadne for advice and bitching, when a hand lands on the middle of his back, touch light. Arthur turns around, preparing to tell whoever it is off, but he gets tripped up when he sees the most gorgeous guy he thinks he's ever seen outside of a movie.

"There is no way you got in here legally," the guy says, with an odd cadence to his voice. _British accent!_ Arthur's brain informs him helpfully, and then, _Ariadne is going to be so jealous_. Arthur's brain is not, however, helpful enough to conjure words to his mouth.

"Don't worry," the guy says. "It'll be our secret."

"Thanks," Arthur manages finally. "Uh. I'm Arthur."

"Eames," the guy says, and Arthur immediately curses himself for using his real name, because clearly the guy didn't. "Can I buy you a drink, Arthur?" Eames asks.

"Yeah," Arthur says, and then, when Eames gives him an expectant look, "uh. A beer would be great."

"Didn't take you for the beer type," Eames says, the corner of his mouth curving up. "Figured you'd go for something fruity and sweet."

Arthur bristles for about as long as it takes to realise he's being flirted with. Then he might go a little pink. "Sorry I don't follow such rigid expectations," he says, then hopes that isn't too standoffish.

Eames just grins at him, going off and coming back with two beers after a minute.

Arthur takes a sip, then really wishes he'd just let Eames get himself something fruity, because beer is awful. Eames is watching him drink it with that small smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Let's get a seat," he says, while gracefully ignoring the faces Arthur is trying, and failing, to avoid making at every sip.

Eames somehow manages to snag a booth that appears out of nowhere, tucked back out of some of the noise. "You look like far too well-behaved a person to be sneaking around with a fake ID," Eames tells him.

"Clearly you don't know me at all," Arthur says, and Eames raises an eyebrow.

"Not yet," he says, and Arthur tries to keep his heart from pounding.

"Not yet," Arthur says, and he's trying for coy, he thinks he's trying for coy, but it doesn't quite work out that way.

Eames grins at him. "Let me get you something fruity and sweet," he says. "Clearly beer doesn't agree with you."

Arthur tries to protest, but Eames is already up and gone, and when he comes back, he comes back with a drink Arthur can barely taste the alcohol in at all.

That proves to be a bad thing once Arthur's on mysteriously delicious drink number three, and he realises he's been steadily inching closer to Eames, or vice versa, for the past...however long it's been. Eames had been distracting, with a host of amusing stories for Arthur to wryly comment on, and somehow Arthur missed the point where he ended up almost in Eames' lap.

"Um," Arthur says. Eames' mouth is very close.

"Um?" Eames asks, mouth quirking up, just at the corner, and Arthur can't help but kiss him.

Eames kisses hot and wet and deep, like no one Arthur's ever kissed before, embarrassed fumbles in the dark of a party or unschooled attempts at something they know they should be doing. Eames kisses him like it's as natural as breathing, hand curling around the back of his neck, twisting in his hair, and all Arthur can do is try to keep up, try to keep breathing.

Eames pulls back after a minute, presses his forehead against Arthur's. "My flat is nearby," he says, low enough that Arthur can barely hear him, and all Arthur can do is nod.

Once he's standing, Eames' fingers curling around his wrist, the alcohol hits him hard, harder than before, so he's swaying, just barely, on his feet. Eames gives him a look, and Arthur just shakes his head, threading his fingers in Eames' and trying to ignore the jump that sends through him.

The walk feels short, with Eames' hand in his, fingers hot and calloused, and Arthur doesn't even have time to second-guess anything until they're in Eames' apartment, just a single room with a mattress spread out like an invitation.

Arthur thinks he may have gotten in over his head.

"Hey," Eames says, low, mouth brushing his ear, and when Arthur turns his head, Eames kisses him, slow and easy, their mouths brushing against one another, almost chaste.

Eames is moving him, just a little, as slow as the kisses, so that when Arthur's legs hit the bed, it's a surprise. He pulls back.

He doesn't know how much is reflected in his face, but whatever it is, Eames pulls back, just a few inches, says "want to stop?"

And there's part of him, a small part, that does, but there's something bigger that's still curious, and something even larger that's overwhelmed by how right this all feels, with a guy in general, he supposes, but with this one in particular. He shakes his head.

Eames looks dubious, so it's up to Arthur to close the gap, to press against him, mouth on the seam of his lips, hand curling in Eames' shirt to pull him closer. Eames is hard against him, and this time when he's nudged against the bed, he doesn't pause, just lets gravity take him, fingers still clutching at Eames' clothes.

Eames lands on him, heavy, and Arthur barely gets his breath back from it before Eames is tugging his shirt free of his pants, fingers on the buttons. Arthur knows what he must look like, scrawny, says "Sorry, I'm—"

"You're gorgeous," Eames says, and tugs his own shirt above his head. And that seals everything, because Eames is golden and athletic, his chest covered in a light dusting of hair, and all Arthur wants to do is touch.

After that, things get a little blurry, somehow, Arthur drunk and harder than he's ever been. He dimly knows to shift his hips up as Eames' hands find his belt, and then Eames' mouth, his gorgeous, gorgeous mouth, is wrapping around Arthur's cock, and then Arthur can't think at all.

It's hot, and wet, and it doesn't take nearly long enough for Arthur's dignity to remain intact, but it doesn't matter when Eames swallows around him, shifting up Arthur's body and kissing him, tasting like him. Arthur fumbles with Eames' jeans, hands gone clumsy, and Eames laughs into his mouth. It'd sting, but it sounds fond.

Arthur gets a hand around Eames' cock, and he's clumsy, but he knows what he's doing with this at least, has had years of practice, and it's worth it to hear Eames' breath stutter, to have him pant into his mouth, ragged, to have him come hot in his hand.

Eames pulls back, and Arthur lifts his hand, curiously slides a finger into his mouth. "Christ," Eames says, then laughs breathlessly. "Don't do that unless you want another round."

Arthur considers it.

"Scratch that," Eames says. "If you stay, I promise you another round, but first, _sleep_."

That works out well, considering Arthur isn't entirely sure how he's going to get home, with the subway closed.

They slide under the sheets, barely touching, just Arthur's wrist pressed against Eames', but Eames radiates heat, and it's so, so easy to fall asleep.

Arthur wakes up when Eames says "get dressed," in a voice that sounds all wrong.

"Huh?" Arthur mumbles.

"Get dressed," Eames says. Arthur opens his eyes. Eames is standing over the bed in his boxers, and he's got Arthur's wallet in his hand.

"You went through my stuff?" Arthur asks. He has a growing sense of dread.

"You're sixteen," Eames says, and his voice is flat.

"Who said you could go through my stuff?" Arthur asks, panicking.

"You're sixteen!" Eames repeats. His voice has gone a little hysterical.

"You knew I was underage!" Arthur says. His cheeks feel hot.

"Yeah," Eames says. "Like twenty! Maybe eighteen! Not a bloody infant!"

Arthur crosses his arms. "It's not illegal or anything," he mumbles, ducking his head.

"That makes me feel much less like a child molester, thank you Arthur," Eames snaps.

Arthur could not be more mortified if he tried. "I'm not a child," he mumbles.

"Near enough," Eames says, then rubs his face, sits down on the bed beside him. "Could you get dressed? Please?"

Arthur gets up, and pretends it doesn't sting when Eames averts his eyes.

"I'll drive you home," Eames says, once Arthur's gotten dressed.

"You don't need to do that," Arthur says, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"I really do," Eames says. He sounds tired.

Eames doesn't take back his offer to drive Arthur even when he realises Arthur's in the suburbs, so Arthur steels himself for an excruciating half hour.

After ten minutes of Eames tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Arthur snaps.

"Does it help if I tell you I'm seventeen in a month?" Arthur asks.

"It really doesn't," Eames says, but he sounds a little wry, finally, that horrible thread in his voice gone.

"Do I want to ask how old you are?" Arthur asks.

"No," Eames says.

Arthur waits.

"Twenty-four," Eames grits out, like it's hurting him.

"Oh," Arthur says. "Wow."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Eames says, and Arthur can see his mouth quirk into the smallest of smiles.

"You're kind of a pervert," Arthur says, and ducks when Eames blindly reaches out to smack him.

The rest of the ride isn't nearly as bad. Now that they've moved past the whole barely legal aspect of things, it's almost comfortable. Arthur finds out Eames is a grad student, here on a visa, and Eames politely pretends that Arthur's plans for college are interesting, even though Arthur figures they're probably not. When they reach Arthur's street, it's almost a surprise.

"So," Eames says, parking out front. "Sorry for despoiling you and all that."

Arthur kisses him. Eames is frozen for a moment, an excruciating moment, before he's kissing him back, hot and wet and perfect.

"I'm going to hell," Eames says under his breath, when he finally pulls back.

"Come inside," Arthur says.

"That is a horrible idea," Eames tells him, but he doesn't look like he means it.

"My parents aren't home," Arthur tells him.

Eames stares at him for a long moment. "Oh my god, I'm contributing to the delinquency of a minor," he says, but when Arthur gets out of the car, Eames follows.


End file.
